Or, if I could not wait,
was there no omnibus along that London highway? How could I make the
well-to-do person understand that I did not feel able to afford, that
day, one penny more than I had spent on the book? No, no, such labour-
saving expenditure did not come within my scope; whatever I enjoyed I
earned it, literally, by the sweat of my brow. In those days I hardly
knew what it was to travel by omnibus. I have walked London streets for
twelve and fifteen hours together without ever a thought of saving my
legs, or my time, by paying for waftage. Being poor as poor can be,
there were certain things I had to renounce, and this was one of them.

Years after, I sold my first edition of Gibbon for even less than it cost
me; it went with a great many other fine books in folio and quarto, which
I could not drag about with me in my constant removals; the man who
bought them spoke of them as "tomb-stones." Why has Gibbon no market
value? Often has my heart ached with regret for those quartos. The joy
of reading the Decline and Fall in that fine type! The page was
appropriate to the dignity of the subject; the mere sight of it tuned
one's mind. I suppose I could easily get another copy now; but it would
not be to me what that other was, with its memory of dust and toil.

XIII.

There must be several men of spirit and experiences akin to mine who
remember that little book-shop opposite Portland Road Station. It had a
peculiar character; the books were of a solid kind--chiefly theology and
classics--and for the most part those old editions which are called
worthless, which have no bibliopolic value, and have been supplanted for
practical use by modern issues. The bookseller was very much a
gentleman, and this singular fact, together with the extremely low prices
at which his volumes were marked, sometimes inclined me to think that he
kept the shop for mere love of letters. Things in my eyes inestimable I
have purchased there for a few pence, and I don't think I ever gave more
than a shilling for any volume. As I once had the opportunity of
perceiving, a young man fresh from class-rooms could only look with
wondering contempt on the antiquated stuff which it rejoiced me to gather
from that kindly stall, or from the richer shelves within. My _Cicero's
Letters_ for instance: podgy volumes in parchment, with all the notes of
Graevius, Gronovius, and I know not how many other old scholars. Pooh!
Hopelessly